


Like Sunshine after Rain

by RileyC



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Sexy Sword Play
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 11:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2307989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An impromptu sparring sessions stirs up simmering UST...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Sunshine after Rain

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place sometime after "The Good Soldier," with vague spoilers up to that point. Also: Everything I know about sexy sword fights I learned from watching Highlander: The Series. It was fun to revisit that.
> 
> It was prompted by Mithen: Athos/D'Artagnan, early in the series, and the moment D'Artagnan realizes what he felt for Athos was more than just comradeship. Hope this comes close.

“Show me what I did wrong.” D’Artagnan makes this request when they’ve stopped to rest their horses in the heat of the day. Porthos and Aramis had produced the makings of a feast from their saddlebags—a roasted chicken, bread, cheese, and wine—and the four of them have enjoyed the impromptu picnic in this cool and shady glade. Full of unspent energy and restless with it, however, D’Artagnan is soon on his feet once more, in need of attention.

He eyes the others where they rest. Aramis and Porthos have settled with their backs against a mossy boulder, shoulders pressed together and legs stretched out in the grass. Both have their hats tipped forward to shield their eyes as they nap. D’Artagnan senses he will get no response there and turns his attention to the fourth member of their party. Athos rests against the trunk of a tree. His hat is off and one leg is drawn up, an arm resting along the knee in a languid pose that D’Artagnan thinks would lull many an observer into a false sense of confidence. _Ah,_ they might think, _here reposes the Comte de la Fère and his lackeys; easy prey for anyone that might come this way._ He smiles, thinking of the reception such false bravadoes would receive from the Comte and his ‘lackeys.’

His smile falters as he studies Athos again. The other man’s head is tilted back against the tree so that he gazes up through the leaves that dapple his features in light and shadow. D’Artagnan’s breath catches in his throat for a moment as he is struck anew by Athos’ beauty. To cover it, he knocks his foot against Athos’ and puts authority into his voice as he renews his demand. “Come on, show me what I did wrong.”

Athos replies with a look, one eyebrow raised, eloquent with exasperation and amusement. “You will have to be more specific.”

A snort betrays that Porthos is awake, though he does not move his hat.

D’Artagnan rolls his eyes. “At the monastery, when the monk disarmed me.”

Now something very like a giggle escapes from beneath the brim of Aramis’ hat.

“Oh, and as if any of you anticipated that ambush,” D’Artagnan retorts. They were all taken by surprise, by the outlaws in monk’s robes, but it stings a bit more for him. Athos had had to come to his rescue, for one thing, exposing himself to danger, and pangs of guilt still trouble D’Artagnan as recalls how close a battle it had been between Athos and the outlaws’ best swordsman.

“I anticipated it,” Athos says now as he climbs to his feet.

“You always think there’s going to be an ambush.”

“And am I often wrong?”

“Perhaps not.” D’Artagnan concedes the point with a shrug. “But what could I have done differently?” He trusts the exact circumstances of brigands disguised as holy men and holding a monastery hostage will not repeat soon, but he is eager to learn every technique that will ensure he is always of assistance to his friends and never an encumbrance they have to endanger themselves to rescue.

“Oh, very well,” Athos says, agreeable to the petition. 

Athos stretches and strips down to his shirtsleeves. D’Artagnan follows suit, and they move into an open area where the sun beats down hot. D’Artagnan feels its warmth on the back of his neck as he and Athos salute each other, touch swords, and begin to circle each other. Aramis and Porthos have given up all pretense of sleep by now and become invested spectators to the duel. 

D’Artagnan doesn’t mind the audience, not until Athos repeats the robber monk’s specific technique, to the same result: D’Artagnan’s legs are swept out from under him and his sword knocked from his grip as he lands, hard, in the dirt. He lunges after the blade but Athos is before him and kicks it out of reach, and then D’Artagnan can only struggle to his knees in the dust, breath coming hard and head tipped back as Athos stands before him in triumph.

“I could finish you,” Athos says, and _that_ is the moment D’Artagnan wishes Porthos and Aramis were elsewhere. It is not that he objects to Aramis and Porthos being witness to Athos gaining the upper hand. No, it is that he has concerns they will see too much as he kneels there in the dirt, throat and chest exposed to Athos’ blade. It’s that he wonders if they will discern too many of his secrets as he accepts this touch of steel as though it were a lover’s kiss, the blade caressing along his collarbone and throat. Athos, at least, only means to illustrate how vulnerable D’Artagnan is; he cannot perceive how much more vulnerable D’Artagnan would like to be.

If Porthos and Aramis do exchange a look of speculation, D’Artagnan doesn’t see it. He is too intent upon guarding his own expression so Athos will guess nothing of the turmoil within D’Artagnan. He can’t be sure of his success. There is a flash of something in Athos’ eyes, but of true comprehension or only a moment’s suspicion it is impossible to say. Certainly Athos draws no attention to the moment and only tells D’Artagnan to get up and pay closer attention as they begin the exercise anew.

The second round goes better and D’Artagnan feels entirely justified in his confidence as they begin a third round. He may always aspire to achieve the cool poise that Athos seems to wear like a second skin but he judges it is good to always have that something more, just out of reach, to push towards. For now, they are both slick with sweat as the battle proceeds; the air is filled with the clash of steel and the partisan shouts of Porthos and Aramis backing one or the other of them as they approach the climax. D’Artagnan’s teeth are bared in an exultant snarl-grin as he begins to gain the advantage and presses it. Athos’ smile is more enigmatic but there is satisfaction—perhaps pride?—in his eyes as D’Artagnan seizes the opportunity when it presents: Athos stumbles, goes to one knee, starts to rise but in a flurry D’Artagnan disarms him, and now Aramis and Porthos voice their shock as D’Artagnan draws the tip of his sword along Athos’ throat.

“Surrender?”

A mysterious smile tugs at one corner of Athos’ mouth and he acknowledges D’Artagnan’s triumph with a minute inclination of his head.

D’Artagnan would like to savor this moment, bask in it, and decipher the mystery in Athos’ eyes. In the next moment, though, everything is altered when Athos’ mouth twists in a grimace of pain and he clutches at his left arm. Blood oozes between Athos’ fingers and D’Artagnan fears his vision swims for a moment. For certain, his sword drops from nerveless fingers as he drops down beside Athos and reaches for him. “Athos... Forgive me, I never meant…”

“You make too much of a trifle,” Athos says, and there is no accusation in his voice, only concern that D’Artagnan not blame himself. This only increases the younger man’s degree of self-reproach.

“Let others be the judge of that,” Aramis says as he joins them. With help from Porthos, he settles Athos against a sun-warmed boulder and reaches for his shirt, tugging it from Athos’ breeches and untying the laces to draw it over his head. “Let’s have a look then.”

D’Artagnan is appalled at the jealous spark that passes through him, the protest that races through his mind— _That should be him laying Athos bare. His fingers undoing the laces, his hands slipping beneath fine linen and touching naked skin…_ \-- It is only an instant’s madness, gone as swiftly when he sees the wound. It’s a deep slice along the bicep and almost the worst thing is how D’Artagnan cannot even remember when he must have struck this blow.

“How bad?” he asks. One hand rests against Athos’ other shoulder but he cannot say which one of them he means to comfort.

Athos is watching him, still unreadable. “’Tis not so deep as well, but ‘tis enough. Or something like that.”

Aramis and Porthos stare at him and exchange a dubious look with each other. “What’s that?” Aramis says. “Are you delirious, dear fellow?” He lays the back of his hand along Athos’ forehead and check for fever.

Athos favors him with a look that questions whether he possesses any good sense at all. “It is a quotation, from a play I saw once.”

“Ah, I see.” Enlightened, Aramis trains his attention on the wound and nods to himself. He looks at D’Artagnan, hovering and very much in the way, and then catches Porthos’ eye. “If you would…?”

Porthos nods and catches hold of D’Artagnan, bodily moving him out of the way. Oblivious to the young man’s indignant squawk, Porthos deposited him still near Athos but with enough elbow room for Aramis now. “There we are,” Porthos said with a pleased look on his face. “So, what was the play, then?”

Amusement dances in Athos’ eyes and that is certainly more desirable than pain. D’Artagnan thinks on that as he smooths his ruffled feathers and listens to Athos as he says, “It was called _Romeo and Juliet_ , by an Englishman named Shakespeare.”

“An Englishman?” Aramis cleans the wound and turns to his sewing kit. “Dry and deadly stuff, I suspect.”

“Not entirely without merit,” Athos says as he watches Aramis at work. “Romantic nonsense about star-crossed lovers.” He bites his lip as the needle goes in and D’Artagnan reaches to cradle the back of his head, fingers digging into his hair. Porthos has a hand braced against Athos’ back, rubbing in slow, firm circles, and asks, “Want me to knock you out?”

Athos’ lips twitch with a smile. “Thank you, but no.”

“Won’t be long,” Aramis says with a bright look that doesn’t quite disguise that he regrets the necessity of doing this so often for the others. D’Artagnan experiences another pang of guilt at that, because this instance at least could have been avoided if he had been more careful.

To distract everyone but Aramis, Porthos asks, “So there are swordfights in this play?”

“There are.”

“Huh. Funny sort of romance with people getting into fights all over the place,” Porthos says.

“Well, they are meant to be young and full of passion.” Athos speaks lightly, no outward sign to show he is even aware of Aramis and his needle.

“Ah, of course,” Porthos says as though that explains everything. He slides his hand up then to grip Athos’ uninjured shoulder. 

Feeling that he’s not keeping up his side, D’Artagnan asks, “And is there a happy ending for all?”

Athos swallows hard and pushes back into their touch. “Star-crossed, remember?” His voice isn’t quite so steady now.

“Not much of a romance then,” Porthos says. His tone is light and he strokes Athos’ hair back from his face and tilts his head down to murmur soothing assurances to the other man. D’Artagnan can’t help but draw some vicarious comfort for himself.

“And that is how you know it was written by an Englishman.” Aramis makes this pronouncement as he sits back, finished with his stitching and pleased with the result. “One of my best, I think.”

Porthos cranes his neck for a look and nods his approval. “Looks good.”

D’Artagnan looks for himself and concurs. There will be a scar but he draws some consolation in knowing it will not be severe. 

“Bandages and a fresh shirt, I think,” Aramis says as he stands up.

Porthos accompanies him over to where the horses graze and D’Artagnan moves around to settle down beside Athos. He’s careful not to jostle him but his shoulder still bumps Athos’ uninjured one. “Sorry.”

“Not at all.” Athos shifts against the rock and D’Artagnan wonders if the stone is too hot against his bare skin. A shaft of sunlight glints off the locket he always wears and D’Artagnan reflects on that as well.

It’s a woman’s trinket. Aramis, convinced of a tragic romance, believed it was a memento of Athos’ lost love. He might not be far off. Where Aramis imagined the kind of thing immortalized in ballads, D’Artagnan possessed knowledge that made him question why Athos kept such a constant reminder. Although perhaps that could be fodder for a dark ballad of murder and revenge and a man forever haunted. He suspected Aramis did not incline toward such tales. They weren’t D’Artagnan’s chosen diversion, come to that.

He is in need of a distraction now and finds it in the pleasing contemplation of the degree to which he had been taken into Athos’ confidence. The circumstances that brought it on may have been bleak indeed, yet it gives him a warm glow of pride and affection when he dwells on it. He had thought Athos might retreat from him in the aftermath of the fire, of his confession. That would have been natural. Instead, it has only brought them closer with an understanding between them that is theirs alone. 

D’Artagnan has dwelt on that a great deal, too, especially in the wake of Marsac’s appearance in their lives. True, there were differences in the two affairs. That Athos’ treacherous wife still lived could have no direct bearing on the rest of them, beyond their concern for Athos. Marsac and the knowledge he carried, the task he had set himself, had posed an immediate danger. D’Artagnan had given Aramis his promise grudgingly and wasted little time in prodding the other man to take the others into his confidence. He kept Athos’ secrets gladly, though. There were reasons for that, he felt a whisper of them now as their shoulders brushed and Athos glanced at him with warmth in his eyes.

D’Artagnan dropped his gaze as he felt heat rise in his face, and became intent upon plucking at blades of grass and thinking on the reasons Athos maintained a reticence with his friends. He suspects it is because Athos fears they will turn from him if ever they learn of his shame. D’Artagnan is convinced Athos is wrong about that but dramatic actions may be required before Athos believes it too. 

Was it easier to confide in him because D’Artagnan was so newly brought into their circle? Because Athos thought D’Artagnan held him in no great esteem? He raises his head to consider Athos, his gaze dwelling at length upon the noble head once more tilted up to the sun, eyes closed against the brightness. If such thoughts have passed through that handsome head, D’Artagnan would like to show him how wrong he is about that. Instead he says, “I must insist that you accept my apology.”

Athos turns to look at him again, a half-smile on his lips and more amusement in his eyes; D’Artagnan bears up under his gaze with success this time. “If I refuse, will you challenge me to a duel?”

D’Artagnan dismisses that nonsensical remark with a huff of air and an eloquent look of his own. 

“Oh, very well: I accept your apology.”

“Thank you.” With that settled, and with Porthos and Aramis taking an uncommonly long time over their errand, D’Artagnan searches for further conversation and finds himself thinking of the play Athos had talked of. “Do you believe that, that two people can be star-crossed in love?” The words had scarcely left his mouth when he looks at Athos in horror. “Forgive me, Athos, I never meant…” _To make you think of her._ The words are left unspoken when Athos raises a hand to forestall him.

“Think nothing of it. And no, I don’t believe such things are set in the stars or otherwise fated. We make our choices, something ill-informed,” a trace of bitterness, self-directed, touches his voice, “and we live with the consequences.”

D’Artagnan wasn’t so sure. “Was it mere chance that brought me to Paris, looking for you?”

“It was raining, you stopped at an inn, Gaudet chanced along and provided the spur.”

Athos was careful not to make mention of his father and D’Artagnan appreciated that, but thinking of his father was laced with better memories now. They didn’t erase the pain but they made it easier to bear. “Papa wanted to push on to Paris,” he said and didn’t try to hide the catch in his voice. Athos touched his shoulder and D’Artagnan nodded his thanks. He regretted it when Athos let his hand fall away. “Suppose we had? Would I have never met you then?” That something so momentous could be the product of mere caprice troubles him.

“Would that be such a loss?”

D’Artagnan frowned at that comment, hurting for how Athos struggled to believe he was deserving of friendship and devotion. He looks at Athos’ hand resting between them on the grass and covers it with his own. “Yes, it would.”

There’s a tension in Athos, not because he objects to the intimacy, D’Artagnan thinks, but because he is uncertain of what to do with the kindness offered him. How would it be if D’Artagnan offered more? Would a kiss shatter him completely? It’s something to think about.

Athos nods after a moment. He doesn’t pull away from the touch, though D’Artagnan senses this takes a great effort. This could be hopeful, though. When he speaks, Athos’ tone is light enough. “You were going to complain to the King about taxes, were you not?”

“We were.” Where was this going? D’Artagnan wonders, content to follow.

“No doubt things would have grown contentious.”

Ah: D’Artagnan perceives the direction now. He finds himself torn between protesting the insinuation of hot-tempered Gascons or encouraging Athos to continue. Ultimately it is not a difficult choice. “Impassioned words would be spoken, yes,” he says and is compelled to add, “Papa’s conduct would be beyond reproach.”

“Of course.” Athos concedes this easily—and he still hasn’t moved his hand. D’Artagnan makes so bold as to run his fingers across Athos’ knuckles and takes a curious satisfaction in the way Athos’ fingers digs into the earth. He lets his caress grow more daring and hopes Aramis and Porthos will continue to loiter over their errand. 

“You would not challenge the King to a duel--” Athos says.

“No.”

“—but there could be a disturbance.”

“It is a possibility. Would it merit the attention of the Musketeers?”

“The King might think so.”

“And as you would have accompanied Captain Treville to the palace that day, it would fall to you to intervene and restore order.”

Athos inclines his head. “Just so.”

D’Artagnan smiles, liking much about this alternative. He feels he must point something out, however. “You do realize this in no way disputes the role of fate in such things?”

“Well, perhaps not. Your destiny to be a Musketeer may be inevitable.”

That Athos will allow that much is accomplishment enough for the moment. Another time D’Artagnan will pursue the belief that his path was meant to intersect with one particular Musketeer.

Porthos and Aramis are headed back at last, voices pitched louder than seems necessary as they debate their chances of making it back to Paris in time to keep an appointment at Madame Angel’s. 

“Terrible thing,” Porthos is saying, “managing all that pent up energy in the meantime.”

“My friend,” says Aramis as he comes around with bandages and clean shirt, “you would do well to learn the pleasure of postponing one’s gratification. To draw it out until the last, exquisite moment,” he kissed the tips of his fingers on a sigh of deep satisfaction, “is truly a pleasure to be savored.” He looks at Athos, then D’Artagnan. “Would you gentlemen not agree?”

To hastily withdraw his touch from Athos would only confirm whatever these two have cooked up in their heads—and it’s most likely they are only making merry. Athos only replies with a look, one that would certainly silence lesser individuals. Aramis only hum a cheerful tune as he bandages Athos’ arm, while Porthos beams down on them all.

-to be continued-

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Venus and Adonis by William Shakespeare:
> 
> ‘Love comforteth like sunshine after rain,  
> But Lust’s effect is tempest after sun;  
> Love’s gentle spring doth always fresh remain,  
> Lust’s winter comes ere summer half be done.  
> Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies;  
> Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies.'


End file.
